Moscow Noir

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Moscow Noir Page 13

by Natalia Smirnova


  “Droll Stories too. That’s Balzac,” Boltyansky preaches. They’re walking home from school.

  “Can I read it?”

  “I’ll bring it tomorrow. I’ll bring The Decameron, not Balzac. Balzac’s in a series. My parents would notice. They don’t let me lend books. The Decameron’s better than Balzac anyway. Balzac just has one weird story, about how he disguised himself as a woman so he could fuck her. Well, I mean, first he’d make friends and all that, you know, and then he’d fuck her. The rest is just boring. The Decameron’s more interesting.”

  Boltyansky does bring The Decameron, a fat blue volume with an elegantly lettered title, and gives Ryabets a two-week deadline. Ryabets skims the yellowed pages and sets it aside. Final exams are starting soon.

  “Wouldn’t you know? The minute I climb off her, the bell! She goes to the door and wipes off the blood, all scared. ‘Who’s there?’ Boltyansky: ‘It’s me, Nadya.’ Her: ‘Damn! What do you want?’ Him: ‘Want to go for a walk?’ Ha ha ha!” Mesropov nearly falls down laughing. “Just imagine. A walk!”

  “What did she say?” Ryabets’s lips are dry. He and Mesropov are standing in the schoolyard. The graduation party is starting in half an hour. Everyone’s already been drinking and they’re sharing the news half-soused.

  “She’s practically rolling in laughter. Well, I sneak up from behind while she’s talking to him through the door and give it to her good! If only Bolt could have seen what we were doing four inches away!”

  Six months before, Mesropov had vowed that before graduation night he was going to pop the cherry of one of their classmates. Fiercely handsome and ox-eyed, he drove the girl crazy.

  “I just came and he says again, ‘Nadya, Nadya’”—Mesropov mimicked Boltyansky’s squeaky voice—“‘Let’s go for a walk…’ Well, I yanked the door open! Just as I was, no underpants, only a T-shirt! And a rubber flapping in my hand. Catch! Bolt’s eyes bug out and he runs! Ha ha ha!”

  “What about her?” Ryabets is breathing fast.

  “Who? Nadya? Nadya’s fine, Ryaba, just fine. She plays along! We fucked like bunnies for hours. Whoo! I can barely stand up. So we’re going to Silver Pine Forest tomorrow, right, Ryaba? Nadya’s got this friend, Lidukha. She’s little but she’s got titties out the wazoo! I’d rather have Lidukha, but Nadya… It’s nice there, in the forest. Never been? Tons of bushes! ‘Under every bush she kept a table set and a home!’ Ha ha ha!”

  Some other classmates come up and Mesropov starts recounting his adventure.

  “Bolt gave me The Decameron to read,” Ryabets says when he’s finished.

  “What? The De-cam-er-on? Give me a break! That Decameron’s kid stuff. Ever heard ‘Luka Mudischev’? The actor Vesnik does it. ‘The Mudischev clan was ancient, it had a patrimony, villages, and giant firs!’ Come over, I’ll play it! The Decameron. Hah! Kid stuff, Ryaba, kid stuff!”

  “It all depends on your imagination,” Tregubov the intellectual interposes weightily. “Some guys can get off on a keyhole. I don’t think The Decameron’s half bad. Quattrocento, feast during the plague… Italy! It’s not ancient Russia. Signorine, not girls! Pinos, not pines!”

  Tregubov knows what he’s talking about. In his not quite seventeen years he’s the only one in class who’s been abroad, he even lived in Italy. His father worked at the Soviet consulate in Rome.

  “Pinos? Is that like a blowjob?” Mesropov.

  “No, amico mio, it’s a Mediterranean pine tree. A sky of purest blue! The sea! The sun! O sole mio/sta ’nfronte a te!/O sole, o sole mio/sta ’nfronte a te!/sta ’nfro-o-o-onte a te-e-e-e!” Tregubov sings, breaking into a falsetto.

  “A goddamn Caruso!” Mesropov says with respect.

  Boltyansky enters the yard wearing a black suit and a skinny black tie. His black hair is combed back and slicked so it shines. Seeing Mesropov, he nearly stumbles and his cheeks break out in red spots.

  “Hey, pino,” someone shouts, “want to go for a walk?”

  Friendly laughter.

  Ryabets doesn’t stick around for the party. He takes his diploma and leaves. As he’s walking down the stairs from the auditorium, Boltyansky catches up to him.

  “You’re taking off?”

  “What do you care?”

  “You’re not staying for the dance?”

  “I don’t give a damn about that.”

  “When are you going to return the book? My parents have been asking. Did you read it?”

  “Not all of it. Exams. I’ll finish tomorrow. I’m fast.”

  Buratina passes them on the stairs. Powdered cheeks, high heels, short little skirt, lacy stockings, and looking slightly sloshed—she’s giggling oddly. Boltyansky licks his lips. Three more steps up and she stops.

  “Ryaba, want a drink? The kids are in the gym. They still have some left.”

  “No, I’m going home. I have a headache.”

  Ryabets can’t tear his eyes away from Buratina’s legs. She smiles.

  “Home, home, home,” she teases. “To his mama… Why don’t you come to Silver Pine Forest tomorrow? Third beach. Know it? We’ll go swimming at 5 or 6, when we wake up. My girlfriend Lida has a dacha there, her parents are taking off, so…”

  “Fine,” Ryabets rasps, and heads downstairs.

  “What’s with you?” he hears the teasing directed at Boltyansky. “Want to go for a walk? Hee hee hee!”

  Boltyansky calls at 4 or so.

  “Are you going to Silver Pine Forest? Did you forget?”

  “Too far.”

  “That’s okay, you can stay over. Nadya’s friend has a dacha there.”

  “I don’t know, maybe I will.”

  “And grab The Decameron. My parents are pestering me.”

  “All right.” Ryabets hangs up.

  Followed by a surprise: Buratina. She’s calling! In the whole ten years they’ve been in the same class, this is the first time.

  “Ryaba, hi.” A depressed voice, as if she’s holding back tears. “Are you going to Silver Pine Forest? Take me.”

  Ryaba’s heart is pounding. Joy! But fear too. Picturing Nadya in a swimsuit, he can’t imagine what he’ll do with himself. His swimsuit’s going to bristle!

  “All right.”

  “Should I come by then? In an hour?”

  Ryabets hangs up and runs to the bathroom. He decides that if he does it a few times he might get by… He twirls in front of the mirror—uses his mama’s powder on his zits, combs his hair back, then parts it; changes his shirt, rolls up his sleeves, rolls them down. What else? What if she walks in, he kisses her, she responds, and—

  A ring. Not the door, the phone. It’s her.

  “Listen, Ryaba, I’ll wait for you at the bus stop. If I come over, you’ll rape me. You gave me such a look yesterday! Hee hee hee!”

  Oof!

  Ryabets grabs his bag and towel, throws The Decameron in—he suddenly remembered—and runs outside.

  Nadya’s wearing a yellow shirt with the top buttons undone, and there are her breasts. And a miniskirt too. Her face is creased; she drank and partied all night long. She’s got a mark on the back of her neck. A hickey? Her eyes, half-Kalmyk to start with, are swollen; the abundant mascara highlights this. Her perfume—from a long way off. Ryabets stares and joy bubbles up inside him alternately with horror.

  It’s a long trip: trolley, subway, transfer, subway, trolley. Ryabets notices glances at his companion—men’s leers, women’s frowns.

  Ryabets can’t for the life of him figure out why she isn’t with Mesropov. It’s a puzzle. Going with Mesropov makes sense. Mesropov would take her in a taxi. All the way to the beach. His parents are really rich.

  The trolley crosses the bridge toward pines, pines, and more pines. Pinos.

  “Lidukha lives way over there,” Nadya points out the window. Tall green and blue dachas with turrets amid century pines. “We’ll go to her place after the beach, tonight. Her parents are off traveling somewhere. Will you go?”

  �
�Maybe,” Ryabets mumbles.

  They get out. Ryabets is holding his bag in front for obvious reasons.

  They’re walking down the road next to a very high fence.

  “Who lives here? Artists?” he asks.

  “Big shots, diplomats, and artists too. Did you see the Japanese flag behind the fence at the stop?”

  “Lucky dogs… In Moscow, but like being in a forest.”

  Nadya shrugs.

  They leave the road and walk among the pines across the sand. Nadya takes off her platform shoes. Ryabets lags behind a little. Make up your mind! is knocking in his brain. She went into the forest on purpose, on purpose!

  He puts his hand on Nadya’s shoulder. The girl stops.

  “What are you doing?” She removes his hand.

  “I… I—” He drops his bag and tries to put his arms around her.

  She dodges him. “That’d be just great. This place is full of people!”

  “I… I… just… wanted… to kiss you.”

  “Kiss me?” She gives him a quick kiss on the lips. “There! Later, later…”

  “When?” Ryabets rasps.

  “Tonight, maybe. Who makes love in the afternoon?”

  Mesropov and the gang are already at the beach. Boltyansky’s there too. The others are strangers, dark-haired and guttural, Mesropov’s fellow tribesmen. They greet the appearance of Ryabets and Burataeva cheerfully, by pouring the Armenian brandy. Ryabets doesn’t drink. He takes a whiff and sets it aside. First of all, he’s never tried anything stronger than New Year’s champagne, and second, he’s angry. Nadya’s the only girl in the group. She goes for a swim. She swims for a long time and he watches her. She’s already squealing and giggling, and they’re already pawing at her. Mesropov and his friends. “Bastards! Bastards!” he shouts with his head under water so no one can hear.

  They play ball, jump around, roughhouse. Ryabets sits on a lounge and rages. Then they wander over to a beer stand on Krug. Mesropov and Burataeva take up the rear with their arms around each other. Ryabets looks back. He doesn’t go near Buratina at the beer stand or later when they finally show up at the dacha of Lidukha, a little brunette with small, intense eyes. She greets her guests on the porch. Mesropov kisses her hand, and at that moment Buratina remembers Ryabets and glances around. He’s standing at the gate.

  “Are you coming or what?”

  “No, I’m going home.”

  He’ll kill her, the bitch, he will.

  Ryabets squeezes his dry fists.

  Laughter from a second-story window: “Ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho! Hee hee hee hee!”

  That last is hers.

  Ryabets feels the rough wall. It’s dry, it’s going to burn, so don’t cry, mama!

  First, gasoline. No problem. There’s a car by the gate.

  Second, a hose. Where’s the hose? There—the dead snake on the dry grass. Everything’s very dry. Laughter and more laughter. Drunken and insolent. And music. Someone’s puking.

  Third, a bottle. Here’s a jar under the porch. Two of them. Liter bottles. Great!

  Ryabets uses his teeth to rip off a piece—about a meter long—of the snake-hose’s black flesh. There we go, there. He twists off the gas cap. Now suck—ha ha—suck! Acrid fumes, more, more… till you feel like puking. More, more… E-ro-tic! Boltyansky would say. He wouldn’t have to listen to his, Boltyansky’s, laughing, fearless, or him jerking off in the hall… Not a damn thing was going to be left of him either.

  It’s flowing! First down the throat, then into the jar. A liter. Let’s pour. Another liter. That’s it, no more sucks out. That’s enough. It’s so dry it could catch without gasoline.

  Now to wait. Cover the jar with a towel at least, so it doesn’t evaporate off, and wait-wait-wait.

  Ryabets moves away from the dacha and sits leaning up against a sticky pine trunk. Wait. It’s a good thing there’s no dog. No dog.

  Ryabets’s hand slithers into his pants. No, he shouldn’t. If I come I’ll back down. It’s wrong. For three years she’s all I’ve been thinking of. Hands off!

  Her short haircut in the window. She’s smoking, tapping the ashes right where he was just standing. Oops! The butt flies like a drunken star and drops next to his invisible feet. And smolders. But it could catch fire. It could. Excellent. She’s gone. Yesterday Mesropov said he wanted her girlfriend. But who wants her? These guys? The Chuchmeks? Bitch.

  It’s not jealousy, it’s justice. Like in The Decameron. She keeps him waiting in the yard in winter while she consoles herself with someone else. Italy. And the wife forced her husband to climb into a barrel to caulk it up from the inside. She’s standing there and showing him where… while another guy fucks her from behind. Cheerful folks. And there’s the one who pretended to be deaf and dumb in a convent. That’s the life!

  Ha ha ha ha! Ho ho ho ho! Hee hee hee hee!

  When are they going to settle down? First brandy, then beer, then brandy. How will he get home? How? The trolleys will stop running. So will the subway. I’ll call my mother. Or maybe I shouldn’t. Evidence. They’ll ask his mother, When did your son come home?

  Phooey! He’s in trouble again. Don’t do that. Go home. Jerk off as much as you can. Until you can’t, ha ha.

  Shhh. They’ve turned off the lights. Gone to bed? Bolt too? With who? Quietly by myself… Super! The terrace door creaks. Ryabets presses up against the trunk and tucks his feet in. The shadow from a nearby bush hides him. A rustle. Lidukha with the big tits. Mesropov. They stop and whisper.

  “I won’t without them. Where did she throw them, the fool?”

  “Over here somewhere. It’s dark, where should I look? I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  “You promise but it’s my ass!”

  “Lighten up, will you? I swear, I’ll be careful!”

  “Uh-huh, and then it’s you and Nadya?”

  “What’s with you? I didn’t invite her, you did. You and I have all day tomorrow, don’t we? When are your parents coming back?”

  And he paws at her, the Chuchmek, he paws at Lidukha. He pulls her to the ground and lifts her skirt, goddamn decameron!

  Ryabets goggles at the silhouettes fornicating. He feels like coming out and… kicking, kicking! Just be patient. Wait and be patient. Lidukha gives a faint cry. And Ryabets notices her look out the window. Her profile is sweet, but her eyes are harsh. That means she sees everything and isn’t going away. Why? Why? Mesropych rolls off the girl. Like a tick. Nadya spins around and vanishes.

  They stand up, shake off, and leave. They close the door. Lock it. Very good. Wait.

  Ryabets, crouching, moves toward the house, right where the couple was. There’s something kind of white in the grass—condoms! Two packets held together by a rubber band. Why did they leave them here?

  Ryabets is standing behind the bridge pylon watching. The flashes he could barely make out a minute ago are visible now, and furious. The pinos are burning, the pinos! Like candles!

  He stands and watches. Another ten minutes and it’ll be dawn. Two fire engines speed past. And an ambulance. Too late.

  He descends to Novikov-Priboy Street, finds a telephone booth, drops in a two-kopek coin, and dials. His mother doesn’t answer right away, she mumbles incoherently, and Ryabets is relieved. She’s drunk. If she’s drunk, that means his father’s been asleep for a long time too. No need to hurry.

  Last man standing. How powerful is that? Like Mesropych. Boltyansky once asked Zinaida Leonidovna, the lit teacher, about The Decameron. Had she read it? That idiot four-eyes exploded. “Who gave you permission to read books like that?” And Boltyansky said to her, “But it’s a classic. It says so in the preface.” “A classic?” Zinaida Leonidovna hollered. “I’ll give you a classic, Boltyansky! I worry that’s all you think about! It’s never occurred to you that The Decameron is primarily an anticlerical book. Go to the board, Boltyansky. Tell me about the images of Communists in Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov’s Quiet Flows the Don and Virgin Soil Upturned.
Or should I fail you immediately? Tell your parents to come see me tomorrow!”

  “You mean we shouldn’t read Balzac either, Zinaida Leonidovna?” This was Tregubov, a top student. She wouldn’t dare yell at him. “What Balzac?” She was buying time. “Droll Stories, Zinaida Leonidovna!” She blushed deeply, removed her glasses, and put them back on. “Today we will continue our study of Virgin Soil. Open your notebooks…”

  Ryabets finds an open doorway and hides under the stairs. He can wait here a few hours, in the corner, and then the trolleys will start running. And the subway. Don’t cry, you’ll wake people up. Don’t cry.

  THE DOPPELGÄNGER

  by Gleb Shulpyakov

  Zamoskvorechye

  Translated by Sylvia Maizell

  Once there lived an actor in Moscow. For many years he performed in a celebrated theater and appeared fleetingly in TV serials. He was considered famous although he never made it as a popular icon. And this didn’t bother him in the least. It happened long ago, about twenty years or so—he had the good fortune to play a small but impressive role in a famous film about the Revolution. Eventually he settled down, having decided he’d made his mark, that he’d already been inscribed in the history of cinematography.

  After that film they recognized him for many years on the streets. But without any frenzy, without their eyes popping out. Hey, look who’s coming, uh, what’s his name… And there followed the name of the character he played, since no one remembered the actor’s real name.

  He lived many years alone in a tiny bachelor apartment the theater provided for him, in a Stalin-era building by the Paveletskaya station, in the Zamoskvorechye neighborhood. The theater administration had offered several times to move him to a new place on the other side of the river, closer to work. But each time the actor refused. He liked living here. Over time he had grown fond of the mysterious silence of the streets on Sundays; more and more often he imagined another life that was long gone in its sagging mansions; in the evenings, when he strolled the narrow streets, it seemed to him that this life hadn’t ended one hundred years before but still flickered—there, behind the dusty panes, behind the chipped wooden shutters. He was fond of the amusing and naïve residents of these streets, who were on a first-name basis with each other, who at the streetcar stops exchanged rumors about a maniac from the chocolate factory; about a sect that met in the abandoned church by the metro and devoured ancient ecclesiastical texts; about the corner house with the rotunda that housed a secret brothel.

 

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